


Hell's Angel

by KarlaSchmidt



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gang War, Oswald Cobblepot/OC - Freeform, Oswald Cobblepot/Original Female Character - Freeform, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-18 11:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlaSchmidt/pseuds/KarlaSchmidt
Summary: As Don Maroni's top assassin, Morgan Sonne is widely feared and respected throughout Gotham's criminal underworld. A contract at Fish Mooney's brings about the meeting of Oswald Cobblepot and 'The Angel', though little do they know where it will lead them.





	1. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

**Author's Note:**

> My first Gotham story! Please comment and let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!  
> Love, Karla

Illuminated partially by dim scarlet and gold lamps, the music of the band on stage caused the conversations of the club-goers to be reduced to a steady hum. Amidst the groups of people chatting, dancing and drinking, a woman clad all in white slipped unnoticed through the doors of Fish Mooney's; or so she hoped. As she surveyed the crowds from her central table, Fish Mooney toyed with the chunky golden bracelet which encircled her slim wrist. She had seen the main door open, and a flash of white roused her suspicions; not willing to allow this woman to sneak through her club as she pleased, Fish rose from the table and weaved her way through the crowds of people. Soon enough, the woman wearing white almost walked right into her. "Morgan Sonne. Out of your natural habitat, I see." The rather famous hit woman of Salvatore Maroni's was forced to rapidly concoct a feasible excuse for her presence there.  
"Well, you know in Bamonté's, they only ever sell prosecco, wine and champagne. I figured I should stop by here, since you sell the best vodka in Gotham." She answered in as silky a voice as she could manage. "Of course," Fish replied, "but you'll do well to remember I've got my eyes on you. No monkey business, understood?"  
"Clear as day." Said Morgan, before slinking out of Fish's view to the bar. 

Surveying the bar, which was lined with club-goers all along, Morgan's ethereal grey eyes searched for her target. However, she soon discovered that it would be all but impossible to detect him without investigating further. If her time working for Maroni had taught her anything, it was that no matter how quickly she wanted to get the job done, there was always a chance that it would take longer than expected. Sighing, she slipped onto a maroon leather bar stool and ordered a shot of vodka from the passing barista. When it arrived a few minutes later, Morgan was listening intently to her environment, hoping to overhear the name she needed. The problem was that the music was making it extensively difficult to hear anyone more than a stool away. Tapping her right index finger on the glass, the band of the ivory ring she wore clinked against it. She was just about to down the rest of her vodka and move along to comb the row, when the man sitting next to her stood unceremoniously and slurred loudly, "Well, see you tomorrow, Jones." Before she could disguise it, her head whipped around to observe the other man. To her surprise, he fit her description completely: slightly overweight, short brown hair and a small line of a scar on his throat. Apparently this guy had pissed someone off before.

Discreetly as possible, she slid onto the neighbouring, newly vacated stool and pretended to be intersted in the contents of her shot glass. The man, barely paying any attention to her, glanced at her for a second begore resuming staring vacantly at a bottle of gin on the bar. While he was preoccupied, Morgan pried open the hinged lid on her ring to reveal an ovular compartment. Lined with pale-copper silk, the hollow ring was half-full of a white powder; potassium cyanide. A swift glance towards her target, and the surrounding environment, and the poison was dissolving in the man's amber whiskey within the blink of an eye. Before he could raise the tumbler, she slid off her stool and began to make her way through the crowd so as to avoid connection with the man once he began to experience the early symptoms of cyanide poisoning. The only reason she wasn't high-tailing it out of Fish Mooney's was because she had to ensure that the target was indeed eliminated - although the chances of his survival were slim, Morgan refused to take that risk.

A creeping feeling that Fish had seen the whole thing settled in her mind, and while she was busy hunting for her, Morgan had no idea that she was about to collide with someone until it was too late. Snapping back into reality, she reached out a hand to help steady the person and exclaimed, "Shit, I'm so sorry." He shook his head and replied politely albeit a touch awkwardly, "It's not a problem, Miss. It happens all the time anyway." At this point, she was finding it difficult to simply turn away and continue walking; if anything, she knew where this man was coming from when he said 'It happens all the time.' He looked to be in his late twenties, a couple of years older than her, and his face seemed to ring a bell. To break the silence that had pervaded their exchange, she said, "I'm Morgan. Morgan Sonne."  
"Ah, the infamous Angel? My name is Oswald Cobblepot. But most people call me Penguin." he replied, extending his right hand. Morgan shook it and nodded - she did not manage to contain the words that she was pondering in the next moments.  
"Aren't you Fish Mooney's umbrella boy? I think I've seen you with her before." Oswald silently affirmed this, and the pair were left standing in quiet yet again. "I take it it's not a position you particularly adore?" Morgan stated rather than asked.  
"That's correct." he replied, traces of bitterness apparent in his aquamarine eyes. Glancing over to her target, who had now accumulated a small crowd of concerned club-goers as he began to convulse, she decided to bring the introduction to a close as she returned her observant gaze to her new acquaintance. "You know, Oswald, before I got in with Maroni, I was just another nobody with nothing to say for myself, no job to speak of. Then, I start killing for money and make a name for myself. I wind up killing one of Falcone's men; this gets Maroni's attention, and here we are." Oswald looked at her, interest truly piqued. "What I'm saying is, anyone can climb the ladder if they work for it. You're stuck in this shitty job for the moment, but if you become the underdog, you'll go far. I promise."

With that, Morgan turned and froze for a second; Butch Gilzean, having evidently noticed the dying man, was making a beeline for her, shoving through the crowds like a battering ram. Within seconds, she was diving and sliding through the crowds as if she were a cat. Oswald blinked and saw a momentary flash of white among the crowds before it disappeared out of the door. The next moment, Butch barged past him, completely disregarding the rudeness of his actions as usual. He could only watch as the bodyguard of Fish Mooney high-tailed it out of the club and after Morgan. Meanwhile, the woman in question had clambered into her white Cadillac which was parked a hundred yards from the club. Deciding to call Maroni later, she sped off along the mostly empty streets towards her apartment, into the pitch black night.


	2. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo Menschen!  
> Thought I'd better update this soon, as it's been ages since I've written anything for Hell's Angel - just been binge-watching Gotham. The Edward thing came as a bit of a bombshell, but I've got a workable yet unfortunate plan for the outcome (for Morgan at least).  
> What do you all think of Season Four? Hope they hurry up with the episodes!  
> Love, Karla

Slamming her bejewelled fist onto the wooden table, Fish Mooney continued to rant to mob boss Carmine Falcone, her loyal umbrella boy sitting meekly at her side. "With all due respect, Carmine, we cannot simply sit around acting like nothing is wrong when Maroni toes the line more and more each day! His little girlfriend, Sonne, seems to be under the impression that she can simply waltz into my club as she pleases and kill off my patrons. Now, I'm not one to be brash, but -" With a wave of his hand, Don Falcone silenced Fish and cut her off in his much calmer, mellowed tone: "As far as she is concerned, Morgan Sonne is Maroni's assassin; nothing more, nothing less. Neither of them pose a significant threat to us at the moment - however, as you seem to be so determined to serve some cold, hard revenge, I will allow Zsasz to have some fun this weekend." Inadvertently, Oswald Cobblepot shivered in his chair, earning an insignificant glance from his employer. For some reason, the thought of Victor Zsasz, probably the best hitman in the United States, 'having fun' with Morgan gave him chills. Maroni? To Oswald, it did not faze him if Zsasz killed him, for he was bound to die eventually in this looming gang war; The Angel, however, had made an impact on him that night in the club, one that he could not place. After what she had told him, a spark had ignited within his soul, paving the way for resentment of the way Fish's lackeys treated him - Hell, even Fish herself wasn't exactly the politest company. Ever since he had joined them, his resented moniker 'Penguin' had stuck for good, and Oswald was just about reaching the end of his tether. Sooner or later, this would end, he thought to himself absently as Falcone beckoned Zsasz to his side from one of the gloomy corners of the room.

As she stepped out of her steam-saturated bathroom clad in a wrap-around ivory robe, Morgan towelled her jet black hair off before heading into the kitchen to brew a cup of her favourite green tea. Looking out of the window towards Gotham's skyline and the rising sun, she sighed deeply, having only woken from her shallow burst of sleep after last night's antics. Although the young assassin dreamed rarely, an certain insecure man had woven his way into her sleep. Running a pale hand through her damp hair, she carried her cooled tea from the kitchen and into her apartment's living room. A massive window spanning from floor to ceiling allowed the room to be brightly illuminated, with all of this light being reflected from the exclusively white furniture; this colour was chosen partially because it allowed Morgan to see and quickly eliminate dirt or stains and simply because she liked how the colour represented purity and innocence. A perfect juxtaposition. Just as she was about to collapse into a wicker chair (draped in a comfortable white throw), Morgan froze - a creak, barely audible to someone who was not on constant high-alert, had sounded from outside her door. Not daring to creep to the peephole, she placed her tea down on the coffee table and ever so gradually, reached for the pistol strapped to the underside, fingers fumbling with the tape for a second. With it in hand, she crouched down behind the snowy sofa, back towards the door. No sooner had she got into position, the door flew from its hinges with a powerful kick, and a familiar voice, one she dreaded above all others, rang through her apartment. "Morning, Angel. Hope you're not too tired for a little social call?" It was Victor Zsasz. 

Forcing herself to keep a relatively cool head, Morgan's trembling fingers gripped the pistol tightly as she listened to the assassin pace at a teasingly slow speed through her lounge. "Come on, I expected better hospitality from you, Angel..." she heard him mutter, seconds away from discovering her makeshift hiding place. With this in mind, she sprang up from her crouching position and fired at Zsasz, hoping to catch him by surprise. However, Victor, as always, was staring straight at her place - with ease, he had anticipated her move and pulled a forward roll to gain cover behind an armchair, drawing his twin pistols in the blink of an eye. His laugh as he shot at her through the sofa sent a shiver down her spine: "Now here's the welcome I wanted!" Taunted Victor, just dodging a low shot from Morgan as she lay on the ground, attempting yet again to take him by surprise with a different angle. Flying in seconds, an agonizing minute in which the two assassins shot at each other incessantly passed by, ending with Morgan's sense of dull horror as her gun released a flat click instead of a bullet. "Fuck." She whispered. Despite her escalating panic, the twenty seven year-old devised a plan (risky at best) in order for her to be armed - for even in an fight with the exact same weapons, it would still be a terrifying experience for someone of even Morgan Sonne's calibre to be pitted against Victor Zsasz. After a few valuable seconds ticked by with the room oddly empty of shots from the petrifying bald hitman, she finally decided to wing it and dive from her cover into the kitchen; where she could picture exactly the drawer which held a large array of knives. Only when she reached her destination did she realise that the reason why her opponent hadn't been shooting was because he was toying with her - why make the kill fast when a knife was so much more savoury? 

"Can you be any slower, Morgan? Word is you're Maroni's best assassin - this all he has to offer? Come on, we can do this knife on knife, I want to play." Although she knew he was only antagonising her, Morgan could not help but feel her blood boil - no-one insulted her abilities; Victor was no exception. "Think you have the high ground, Zsasz? Think again - this isn't your playground." As Victor still kneeled behind her armchair, Morgan launched a hawk-bill knife at his pale face when he peered over the top with his icy eyes. Missing its main target (due to his rapid dodge) the blade nicked the edge of his forehead, causing an immediate flow of crimson blood. Seeking refuge behind the corner, Morgan breathed deeply before curling her fingers around her favourite blade. Cruelly serrated butterly knife in hand, the woman leaped at her opponent, strike only just blocked by his needle-point blade. Since the sharp notches on her knife had locked their blades together, the two struggled together until Victor swiftly removed a second knife from his belt, burying it in the edge of Morgan's waist and earning a strangled yelp from her. Throwing herself against him, they collapsed to the floor, Victor landing in the middle of her coffee table and causing it to smash. Shards of glass burst in every direction, most becoming buried in Zsasz's back - Morgan's tea was sent to the floor in a steaming wave, though she paid it no mind as she smirked at his groan of pain. "What's the matter, Victor? Didn't bring any of your hooker friends to kiss it bett-" As she taunted him, the man in question rolled them over with a grimace so that he was on top, gripping her by the wrist to prevent her from slashing at him."No," he responded through gritted teeth, "but you'll be crying for Maroni when I'm done with you, Angel.". Picking up his knife from where it had clattered to the blood-stained floor, Victor drew a curved line across Morgan's face teasingly, bringing a few beads of blood to the shallow, thin cut. To her surprise and disgust, the hitman smirked at her before licking the blood from her cheek. Before either of them could make a move, Morgan's ringtone interrupted their tryst: "All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you better run, better run, outrun my gun...". Zsasz grinned down at the woman he had pinned under his muscular body "Nice taste of music." He commented. Morgan responded dryly, "Mind if I get that?" - at this, Victor leaned back on his heels, allowing the Angel to slip away from his legs to answer. Noticing that it was Don Maroni's phone number, she quickly composed herself, straightening her blood-spattered robe and brushing her long curls from her face. "Hello, Sir." She greeted, calm voice betraying none of the past few minutes' events. "Yes, I'll be there in..." Morgan trailed off, glancing at Zsasz (still grinning), who held up two fingers of his right hand. "Two hours." She affirmed, releasing the tension in her muscles slightly; at least she would be alive at the end of this scuffle. However, as Victor was so fond of reminding everyone, alive was a very broad category. 

As she hung up the phone, Morgan half-heartedly swiped at Zsasz with her butterfly knife, surprised as it hit home in his arm - evidently he had not expexted such a sudden attack in the less hostile atmosphere. Despite her slight advantage, she only had time to twist the knife a couple of times before Victor used his greater weight to send them to the floor once more. "Naughty girl." He chastised, twisting her knife arm at an agonising angle behind her head while relishing the sharp gasp she uttered. He vowed that the day he was allowed to kill the Angel was the day he would hear her beautiful scream. "Believe it or not, I'm here as a messenger/reminder. Now, do me the courtesy of listening to this: Falcone says you and Maroni are toeing the line - one more stunt like the guy from Mooney's and I won't be so forgiving. It's your life and Maroni's on the line now. Though I must say, that kill did sound good, I overheard Butch telling Fish. You run off to Maroni and tell him that, but for now, sweet dreams, Morgan." With that, Victor slammed the handle of his knife into her forehead and left the apartment, avoiding the shards of glass as he went and leaving the Angel unconscious on the floor amid the debris.

An hour later, rushing up the stairs as fast as he could, Oswald Cobblepot frantically searched for Morgan's apartment number. Ever since he saw Victor Zsasz striding into Fish Mooney's with blood dripping from his temple, he had dreaded the situation Morgan was in - even more so when Zsasz gave a cheerful yet stone-cold grin at his wide-eyed expression. As he found it, the white-painted door was lying flat on its hinges, and when he entered the apartment, he gasped in shock. Every piece of furniture in the living room was stained with blood (Zsasz's or Sonne's he had no idea), shattered glass littered the floor and Morgan's motionless body lay on the floor, copious amounts of blood oozing from a stab wound at her waist. Limping over to her side, Oswald sat next to her with a slight inhale in pain at his knee. Heart aching for the woman who had given him the most encouragement since his mother, he held her head in his lap, brushing back the damp black curls. His surprise when she suddenly took a deep, rattling breath was great to say the least. "Hey..." Morgan whispered, as her eyes fluttered open, revealing the deep grey eyes to him once more. "My God, what did he do?" Asked Oswald urgently, a tear threatening to drop from his aquamarine eye. Tentatively, the woman ran a hand down her side with her non-sore arm and felt the deep wound in her waist, and made the mistake of laughing, causing her to wince in pain. "Nothing too bad." She breathed, cracking a half-smile at him before drifting back to unconsciousness.

Having decided that it was the best course of action, Oswald had laid Morgan out across the backseat of his car and driven her to Maroni's country estate. Carefully, he propped her body up on a pine tree and wrapped a jacket he had grabbed on the way out of her apartment tighter around her. As gently as he could, Oswald stroked her ivory-pale temples, savouring the feeling of her soft skin on his. Hoping against hope that she would not mention him when she awoke, the man known as Penguin sped off back towards Gotham.

For the second time, Morgan awoke to a pair of eyes surveying her; however, these were not a deep aqua, but spruce-brown - Maroni. "Jesus, Morg, you scared the life out of me! I found you outside, bleeding out." The woman in question gazed around the room: a fire crackled warmly, heating her frozen body; the surroundings were formal, yet comfortable and inviting as well, and she was lying on a beige sofa with Salvatore Maroni sitting next to her. Moreover, the sharp pain in her side was gone, replaced with a muted ache - also, she was not in her own clothes. Instead, her battered body was wrapped in a fluffy cream dressing gown; this fact caused a light blush to cover her cheeks. Morgan was thankful that Maroni hadn't started interrogating her right off the bat, for he had dealt with enough situations like this to know that whoever had sustained the injuries didn't want to be grilled on their attack immediately after waking. "Thank you, Don Maroni." "Drop the formalities, Morg, we're alone here." He handed her a steaming mug of hot chocolate, which she accepted gratefully. After a few minutes in comfortable silence, Maroni began his questioning. "Okay," he began as Morgan sipped, "I have my suspicions, but I need to hear it from you: who did this to you?" "The only man who could have bested me in a fight - Victor Zsasz." "I hope you gave as you got then?" He asked, smiling slightly at his assassin. "If you count that he'll be tweezering glass out of his back for a week, then yes." They both laughed together before continuing. "By the way, I stitched that stab wound in your waist up. Should be back on your feet in a couple weeks." "Thanks. Not the morning you were expecting?" Morgan stated more than asked, raising an arched black eyebrow. In response, Maroni laughed, and replied "You can never expect anything to go smoothly in Gotham. Even Zsasz wouldn't have expected you to put up such a fight - he's used to everyone running at the sight of him." Nodding in agreement, the younger of the two finished her drink, whereupon she suddenly questioned, "Sal, do you know how I got here? One minute I'm out cold in my apartment, the next I'm here." "I only know what I told you, Morg - someone must have brought you here, and it sure as Hell wasn't me or my men. Only question is, who would? Zsasz is out of the picture, he'd just leave you until someone found your body." He mused, gazing pensively at the fire. "All the possibilities left are some random citizen, the GCPD or one of Falcone's guys. But all of those sound wrong. What reason would any of them have to bring me here, to safety?" "I'm not sure. But you need to get some sleep - can't have my top girl away for too long." Maroni said, before clapping her on the shoulder and leaving the room with a smile.

Try as she might, Morgan could not help but ponder the situation some more; her last memory of the event was being knocked out by Zsasz. However, she had a tugging thought in the back of her head, that perhaps there was more to it than she remembered. For the next few minutes, she turned her memory inside out to see if anything about her aid would resurface. All that she could visualise was a pair of striking eyes of aquamarine - only one man she knew had such eyes... Oswald Cobblepot.


	3. Developments in a Death, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo Menschen!  
> Been too long since I posted on Hell's Angel, but hopefully I can stop being so lazy and get on with some writing! It seems like forever since Season 4 part one finished, and until they get part two out - hope they hurry up.  
> Auf Wiedersehen,  
> Karla

Dawn sent its zephyrs carrying the first scents of the surrounding forest to Maroni's country estate as he unfolded the weekly Gotham Gazette. Before glancing at the headline, his chocolate-brown eyes surveyed the mostly recovered assassin who sat opposite him, white robe shifting slightly with the breeze. For a week, the employer and hit-woman had stayed at his estate, breakfasting together before Maroni left for work. Morgan, who had made a swift recovery from Zsasz's assault, had spent the time strolling through the secluded pines and being consoled over her lost battle by the thought of Zsasz picking glass shards out of his back. As necessary as her relaxed week had been, this morning would be the final one of sipping coffee nonchalantly in the morning with her boss. Having averted his gaze to the newspaper, Maroni skimmed the articles, before Sonne suddenly broke the silence. "Pleasant as this time off has been, Sal, I'm going to have to start work again soon. Besides," she continued, before the man in question could protest, "My pride's the only injured thing now." Resignedly, he grinned at her, replying in his usual drawl: "I suppose so... go get dressed then, Morg." Nodding lightly, she rose from her seat, only occasionally holding her waist for support, before changing into the day's white flared trousers and matching button-up.

Although she knew it was a risky and downright idiotic move, Morgan couldn't help but return to Fish Mooney's once the day's contract was complete - if Oswald really had been the one to deliver her from her chaotic apartment to Maroni's, then she had much gratitude to express. Perhaps it had been his awkward politeness, perhaps the sense of being meaningless in the world which she could empathise so well with; either way, Cobblepot now possessed an ally in Morgan Sonne. Having contemplated his actions all week, the hit-woman knew that his actions had been truly selfless and posed a significant risk to his own well-being if anyone were to discover them. As she pulled over a few blocks from Mooney's, she had an approach completely planned: she would simply wait until Oswald left the place so that she could meet him and thank him for... well, rescuing her. The notion was both warming to her and left a bitter taste in her mouth, as if the fact that she needed 'rescuing' was a blow to her self-confidence. After a brief pause and shaking the thought off, Morgan clambered out of her car and strolled at a moderate pace to her destination.

A couple of hours later, the assassin felt concern beginning to creep through her veins; for Fish Mooney's car had long since purred off into the distance, which would suggest that Oswald's work for the day was over. However, she had seen no limping man carrying an umbrella exit with Fish or since she had departed. Lingering in Morgan's mind was the heavy chance that someone knew that Oswald had refused to leave her for dead... having witnessed events such as this before, she knew exactly what could happen to him if her suspicions were correct. For a reason yet unknown to her, the thought of the man being tortured (or worse) because he had helped her was rather nauseating. Just as she was beginning to consider searching the building, an all too familiar voice called from the doorway Morgan had been waiting by. "Hello, Angel. Didn't expect to see you up and about so soon. How's the waist?" Stepping out of the shadows, came the only man yet to best Morgan in a fight. "Zsasz. Hope the arm and back didn't twinge too much - did your girlfriends kiss them better for you, by the way?" She responded cooly to his prodding comment - if he wanted to rile her up, she would play his little game. "Good as new, thank you. Now, if you don't mind me asking, what the Hell are you doing here? My friendly reminder not enough?" Though Victor's voice dripped with playfullness and almost joviality, his steely eyes screamed dormant threat. The two of them both knew that at the moment, he could overpower her within seconds if she were to foolishly pick a fight. Meanwhile, Victor was relishing in his control over the situation; not only was Morgan wounded and on his home turf, she was well aware of his present advantages rather than being her usual assured self. Cutting to the chase, she questioned, "Where's Cobblepot?". "Don't tell me you have a crush on that little freak of all people? If someone asked me, I would've said you were banging Maroni or something-" "Thank God no-one is asking you, Zsasz. Besides, this has nothing to do with you." "Then why ask me at all?" At this, Morgan rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Just tell me; then I'll call it even and won't attack you on sight when I recover." Scoffing, Victor rebuked her weak threat. "Really? Well, I'll be waiting with baited breath until that day comes, Angel. But if you insist," he began, raising his hands in mock surrender, "Let's just say Penguin's had a one-way trip through the Atlantic."

These words hit Morgan like a tonne of bricks, and though her face remained stoic, her hands were clenched into fists in her pockets, thoughts racing through her mind as a cyclone. "Well... it's been a pleasure, Zsasz. Must do this again sometime." "I'm looking forward to it, Sonne. Don't let it choke you up too much - traitorous scum like him deserve their fates." Turning on her heel, the black-haired assassin strode off as best she could, missing Victor's grin, but his amused chuckle piercing her mind thoroughly. Once she had slipped back into her car, she held her head in her hands, elbows resting upon the steering wheel; in her view, Cobblepot had been nothing but good to her and had not deserved such a fate. However, whatever benefited Morgan (and by extent, Maroni) would be negative to Fish Mooney and Falcone - he happened to be a reactant in this case. Despite having only spoken properly to the man once, the woman detested the feeling of guilt, and the sense of betraying someone who either cared about her or vice versa. Restraining the sickening thoughts whirling in her mind, Morgan gripped the wheel with white knuckles and drove back towards Gotham's bordering pine forest. As the sun descended coral-pink beyond the horizon, she couldn't help but wonder what the last thing Oswald saw was before his death.


	4. Developments in a Death, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for waiting for this chapter, since I had a problem with losing my notes on the dialogue in the main scene. Also, I will be making a one-shot work at some point, including a Morgan/Maroni chapter, because I think their chemistry works quite well. It will feature one-shots from across many fandoms, as well as some existing people.  
> Karla

Since her unfortunate second encounter with Victor Zsasz, Morgan had continued to increase the intensity of her exercise regime and build up the number of weekly contracts - to the relief of her clients and Maroni, whose requests for assassinations were steadily mounting during her hiatus. As the weeks crept by and her death toll once more began to rise, the smiles and laughs she exchanged with the Don became more genuine in accordance; the news of Oswald's death had dampened her spirits significantly. While the sinking, binding sense of guilt was both alien and unwelcome to the assassin, the passage of time had numbed it somewhat, as well as returning to work. Besides, the subject of death had never exactly been vacant from her mind, whether it was one of her hits, the insufferable Victor Zsasz, Carmine Falcone, or even herself. All that snagged her from the rebound was the fact that Oswald had more or less prevented her further injury, and without his swift arrival, she could have been in a much more critical condition. From the very commencement of her occupation, the only people she had remotely cared about were herself and Maroni - to have a new introduction to that list be wiped from the slate so suddenly was a shock she had never experienced. Nevertheless, her life of dealing death was destined to continue, for the moment. 

Presently, she was smirking and joking as usual in the smoothly cruising black Sedan, with her employer sitting adjacent to her; knowing Maroni, if she dropped the slightest hint that something was amiss, it'd take an eternity for him to leave the matter be. Despite her continued façade, their journey to Bamonte's for a brief business meeting did wonders for her mood; aside from her boss, she had no real companionships with anyone, so being anywhere other than her silent, static apartment served as a distraction. On this occasion, she served little purpose other than as a show of power, intimidation and security for him - however, she appreciated that he allowed her to join him and take the day off. Nevertheless, the impending prospect of opposing Don Falcone in the Arkham Project was becoming rapidly more significant in their plans - as it was instrumental to increasing Maroni's political strength and influence. Finally, the car purred to a halt outside of the restaurant, where not high-ranking associates of the crime family sipped delicately at crimson cordials and dined in blissful ignorance of the clandestine operations transpiring under the very same ceiling wrought with painted gold filaments. Exiting first, the Don rose from the car, and waiting momentarily for Morgan to clamber out, strode with ever present self-assured flair into his restaurant. Even after the many occasions of essentially being a decoration for her boss when he visited, a mixed smirk of amusement and scorn never failed to flit across her lips as she silently watched the manager scrambled pitifully to welcome Maroni. Once or twice in the next few minutes, he glanced with evident wariness towards her, though at this point, she had simply begun to brush the needling looks off and occasionally provide a token sinister expression. As she gazed absent-mindedly over the several occupied tables, the majority of the present conversation washed over her. Since Morgan had been subjected to multiple variations of the Arkham speech as well as countless digs at the rival Don, she could afford to be less than completely attentive now. "You see, Falcone is only the boss of Gotham because people believe he's the boss. That's what this Arkham thing is gonna change; people are gonna see that the emperor's got no clothes."

Evidently, Maroni had grown exasperated with the manager as well, as he sighed and raised his arms to the heavens, although any prayers would have to battle through a bulwark of smog to reach God. "I'm wasting my breath, you're an idiot, get outta here." After a few stifling seconds in which the manager scurried away and Morgan snorted under her breath at him, the Don grinned at her with a roll of his hazel eyes. "You just may have another small assignment later tonight, Morg." "Excellent, I've been waiting for this moment for heaven knows how-" At this point, she had yet to notice Maroni's eyes narrowing in the direction of the kitchens, so when he interrupted mid-sentence with a bark of "Who the hell are you?", her gaze snapped to the source of the disturbance without regard to the abandoned conversation. At first glance, it appeared to be only a member of kitchen staff, though her face froze in consternation in the next. Mercifully, the already somewhat irritated mob boss was preoccupied with ceasing the young man's stuttered excuse, so her expression went entirely missed. Before her and desperately attempting to placate Maroni was none other than Oswald Cobblepot. While she reasoned with herself that it was impossible (as it was now official underworld knowledge that he had been shot, perhaps by order of Don Falcone), the familiar aquamarine eyes, chaotic fringe, prominent nose and features as pale as china were undoubtedly present. Eventually, his frantic gaze was drawn momentarily to the staring woman, and though a flicker of relief bloomed in his eyes, it was instantaneously replaced by fear that she would inform Maroni of his identity. Snapping back into reality, Morgan nodded nearly imperceptibly and adopted an expression of stony interest tinged with threat. "You were listening, huh?" Continued the Don, intimidating Oswald with a barrage of inquiries, "You're new - what's your name?" The desired effect was indeed produced, though fortunately, the younger man was able to formulate a credible guise. "Paolo, sir." Nevertheless, Maroni refused to slacken his grip on the poor man. "Italian... you don't look Italian." "Well, on my mother's side. It's the side that I claim." Inwardly, the assassin cringed at the mounting silence, though a quick glance at her boss quelled her anxiety for Cobblepot - a warm smile had spread in place of his previous glower. "A boy who loves his mother. Here, here," As he pressed a few bills into 'Paolo's slightly trembling hand, the situation only improved for the dead man and his white-clad ally. "I was a lot like you - started from nothing, but I kept my head down, I worked hard, now look at me. Gotham is the city of opportunity." "Yes sir. I believe that too.", Stated Oswald simply. "You hear what I was saying back there? Those names? Falcone, Arkham? They mean anything to you?" "Honestly sir... I didn't hear anything." He answered, grinning in his security. "Atta boy." Clapping the slightly shorter man on the shoulder, Maroni remained satisfied in his control of the situation, while the two others practically basked in the dissipated tension, Morgan even joining in with a mildly joyous smile.

In the calm silence which followed, the perfectly tailored voice of the reporter who occupied the T.V screen seemed to creep gradually into the void of the three, each notorious in their own respect. Voice lilting pleasantly with each word, as was expected of those who were present on live news, she provided a brief summary of the latest in Gotham's most bizarre crimes; the apparent murder of the corrupt and quite deranged Cardinal Quinn via a weather balloon. Raising her eyebrows, Morgan watched with both curiosity at the almost laughable peculiarity of the whole affair and practiced nonchalance towards the flailing, pleading man who was now on level with some of the city's highest office blocks. "See this, this is not good. Can't go around killing priests - at least not in public." Gesturing in the sign of the cross, Maroni grinned and tapped Oswald on the cheek, who was attempting both to laugh along as well as contain his cringe at the contact. "Couldn't agree more." Chimed in Morgan, keeping eye contact mostly with her boss, though at some point, her eyes were briefly drawn back to the pale man. "Vigilantes tend to be bad for business, so the GCPD should hopefully step up their game for once. However, his method certainly is original, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed." Smirking with a more light-hearted air than she had in months, the assassin revelled internally in the shy chuckle that comment had given Oswald. Once a second silence, even more amicable than the former had passed, Maroni nodded warmly to him and said, "Go take care of your mother, Paolo." Turning to Morgan, he added "Oh, Morg? You're free to leave, official business is over for today. Unless you fancied digging around for this Balloon Man character. If you wanted a lift home, then we're leaving in five minutes." With that finality, the Don strode from the restaurant with full composure, leaving the two younger people in their own solitude; the various conversations of the droning guests seemed miles away. 

For once, Morgan had no idea of how to begin - endless questions and phrases whirled around in her mind, pervading each thought and writhing to her temples to pound away at her brain there. Seconds ticked by as they merely stood and stared at each other, the woman's lips slightly parted and clenched between her teeth, while Oswald had to break the contact every so often. Similarly to her, he had no idea of where to begin, what to begin with and why at all. An explanation? An apology? Lovely to see you again, Miss Sonne. Yes, it was me who took you to safety from your battlefield of an apartment. No, I never died, in case you were convinced of that. Eventually, however, she broke the silence, which had long since drifted from amiable to downright awkward. "Meet with me under the Ironstone Street bridge tonight at eleven p.m. That should be sufficient time for us to get some grip on ourselves." Finally, she inclined her head cordially in his direction and followed in her employer's footsteps to the lingering Sedan outside. Meanwhile, Oswald returned to the kitchens when the manager re-emerged from wherever he had scurried off to. Absently, he returned to the awaiting glasses under threat of a verbal lashing, considering just what he should disclose to the young assassin later that evening. Since he knew she already felt a degree of sympathy for him (or had a few weeks ago, at least), he supposed that the truth wouldn't hurt. Or, more accurately, the majority of it. Nonetheless, there was much he was certain would not surface; such as the legitimate respite he had felt upon seeing her on her feet and in good health and humour. Perhaps he should have been strategizing already with this boon - she did, after all, owe him her current well-being. Clearly, she was also grateful enough to him not to snitch on him to Maroni, as far as he knew, and this reluctance would later give him a great advantage over the currently self-assured, wilful young woman. Yet his growing affection for her was undeniably present as well. Smiling fondly to himself, Oswald returned to cleaning the mountains of dishes and glasses, soon to be shed of grime and polished to the purity of a sky far above and beyond the gathering and hushed murky limbs of Gotham's ravenous smog. 


End file.
